[Image description: abstract photo with bright center]
Masculine. Feminine.
Words now defined as opposites, created prior to words as harmony among and within.
Interior balance of energy, each tantamount to the other, wholeness incarnate.
Diverse, yet coequal, until property, commodity, misogyny, took hold.
Multiple expressions of the feminine suppressed, confined, subdued, relegated to certain tasks and certain people.
God, divided.
We can call God Father, and he, and him, and Lord, and warrior, but not Mother, and she, and her, or even corresponding words that don’t exist because the default is always man.
I want the feminine side of God in all her forms.
Not to objectify God by claiming God a woman, the way women are objectified, claimed as God’s gift.
I want the wholeness, the fullness, the perfect entirety— without exclusion— of my own being. And God’s. And yours.
I want symmetry and reciprocity. The function and the beauty. The light and the shadow. The aspiration and the groundedness. The logic and the mystery. As it was. As it could be. If we didn’t split it all in two.
[Image description: five apple seeds on a bamboo cutting board.]
Standing, slicing, contemplating how this crisp apple doesn’t resemble apple blossoms, or apple trees, or even last year’s windfallen fruit rotting underneath, yet the potential for these are right there in the seeds scattered on a kitchen cutting board.
Scraping, haphazard, into the compost bowl, mindful of gaps that surface between the ways I want to be, but am.
The way my irritation over a stranger’s rudeness at the supermarket bears no resemblance to my aspirations of love and tenderness for the world.
The way my patience wears thin with others when I’ve procrastinated and now need them to rush, my uncharitable reactions to other drivers on long commutes in traffic, my lack of curiosity when presented with an opposing view, all falling short of the poetry my soul sings in the woods.
My own contradictions and hypocrisy on display, so unlike the beautiful way of being I wish to embody.
It bears considering what potential I’m cultivating, allowing to germinate, and grow.
God is a man, male, maleness, and therefore, men are more like God. Women are just a rib, a support, a helper to prop up the weight of patriarchy.
It’s there in pages and creeds, who are you to argue? Ignore evidence that contradicts so all you see is a man’s faith, a man’s world a man god.
Kneel there and look pretty while we manufacture scarcity from abundance, violence from connection, commodity from gift.
How I long to clear away these accumulated lies the way one clears tracked-in fragments from the hall rug.
Quick snaps from the wrist, shaking clean over the back-porch rail, leaving the dross scattered in the yard to be washed clean away by the rain on the horizon.
Because the male god they made wasn’t male at all, just a distortion of power, maleness misconstrued.
Wholeness was the gift and we fractured it, splitting the beautiful spectrum of human into two opposites, one dominant.
Changing all/and into either/or, erecting boxes.
One for him. One for her. A facade for each
to stifle the complex beauty that allows us to be And. All. Whole.
The male god distortion crushes even men, separating us from each other and ourselves.
If we sweep away these constructs, confines, cons, we see God is male and not male, female and not female, being itself, not to be constricted by our narrow minds.
Out here in the vast expanse after the rain washes away the nonsense,
what we know is how wide and long and high and deep is being, is wholeness, is love.
[Image description: large wave crashing over a rocky, Maine shoreline]
At the mirror brushing teeth, thoughts crashing in waves, transferring energy one to the next, swelling and rippling back, until a single phrase surfaces:
You’ve always been this way.
Eyes search mirrored eyes, walking tidelines back to source.
Of course.
Of course.
Of course.
What seemed like newness was a return.
The fire in belly and bone over pain of another inflicted by power, illegitimate.
The having to say something— anything— to voice dissent even when voicing brought swift punishment from a wooden spoon, or the rebuke of an elder, or distance from friends.
Stifled, veneered, yet never completely cowed.
‘You’ve always been this way’ echoing until the waves still and there is only the calm of truth coming home.
[Image description: Bare branches in front of a bright, cloudy sky]
‘In the Light: A Lament’
In the light of mourning, clarity. Sorting out which mundane things matter infinitely,
and which matters of past importance to set aside forever as time stretches out for some, past another’s time, cut short.
The unfairness pierces, piercing, pierced.
Different realities crafted to drive a wedge.
Some of us believing nurses and clinicians, experts and those bereaved, imperfectly trying to do our part. Some of us unmask our refusal to be inconvenienced for the sake of others, spreading falsehoods that kill.
Who gains when only some mourn the dead and see the weary eyes of those providing care for wave after wave after wave?
Which day do we designate for a day of mourning when thousands die every day and only some of us believe it didn’t have to be this way?
Will we ever grieve collectively the emptying seats in pews, cubicles, classrooms, break rooms, nurses stations, around dinner tables?
300,000 and counting.
When we fail to mourn together the lives lost to global tragedy because we can’t agree it is a tragedy here, the wound grows unchecked.
We need the searing light of mourning, need to allow it to shatter our hearts for the grief-stricken, the PPE-clothed witnesses, the ones no longer here.
But instead of holding vigil, we carry on like all is well or we withdraw completely or we deny or blame or fling outward an endless volley of hate.
None of which will heal or soothe or bring back a single person lost. We must find it in our hearts to grieve for the year, for our children, for ourselves, and especially for loved ones taken, and those they were taken from.
In the light of mourning, lament. As we see, bear witness, pay tribute, our hearts ache, open, and compassion can break through.
Those words hoard power to a few, leaving others in shadow, dehumanized, no questions asked.
Clinging to absolutes, to subordination, exploitation, indoctrination, will harm, destroy, and separate, but never be as powerful as all the beautiful questions.
I believe in God the Mother, Whose womb gives birth to mystery, Who nurtures all that is, Visible and invisible.
And in her strength, intuition, and softness To cradle the inner child of my heart Tenderly, soothing hurt.
I believe in the spirit of this mother To fiercely protect, Warding off attempts to wound my very nature Love from love Light from light Seeing the true essence of my being.
Through her I know my connection to all else, For me, And with me, In the feminine that is not a construct But is the abundance of mutuality, Receptivity, And fecundity.
She, who is neither opposite nor opposition, But a cosmic bringing-together Where the new unfolds. One aspect, often suppressed, Never subsumed, Always rematerializing. Moon energy, renewing after waning.
I affirm the beauty of her infinite variety Originating from the same source.
The mother presence from deep within Binding up my woundedness, Creating balance, Bringing forth wholeness as a gift to the world.
Amen
(Note: Heartfelt gratitude to Ryan Keebaugh for asking me to take on a new project that led me to these words. Looking forward to hearing how it all comes together!)
[Image description: Two bare trees in a shopping center paring lot, a single branch from each reaching out to the other, touching in the space between.]
Heart full of poetry and problems, trying to bend without breaking down completely.
Waiting without knowing what will be its worth.
Will time tell by giving birth to wholeness? Or will shame, separation, sorrow, fight it out forever?
Can poetry solve problems? Will healing ever come?
Not sure it’s possible to co-create connection, healing, hope, with nothing but this severed cord and glimmer of a different way.
Wondering if hidden in the waiting for what some of us experience as God and some as fate and some as no-god, nothing, is the mystery where that alchemy can happen.
What if the ends of healing depend entirely on the means
and those means are vulnerability, grief, seeing the other’s pain?
What if healing is an active waiting? Help and rest. Intention Care.
Perhaps what we do with waiting is the poem of the hour.
[Image description: sanctuary of St. Patrick’s Episcopal Church. Curved wooden pews, sunlight streaming through the windows, with the altar in the background.]
Note: I wrote this in 2013 after meeting with Jackie, the priest who is the rector at St. Patrick’s in Lebanon. For those who may not know this part of my story: I was raised in the evangelical church and in 2012, after a time of personal and spiritual unraveling, I stopped attending church altogether. I wasn’t sure what I believed and if I’d ever go back to church once I figured it out. In March 2013 I got up one Sunday morning, googled “Episcopal church near me,” made my way to St. Patrick’s for their late service, and have been part of that community ever since. Today is Jackie’s final Sunday before her retirement and it feels right to me to share this little glimpse into one of my first conversations with her. She has had a profound impact on my life and I’m so grateful I am able to be part of the wonderful community she has helped create over the past few decades. I wish her every blessing as she moves on to her next adventure.(Also, for several years I participated in the #OneWordChallenge and the word I chose at the beginning of 2013 was ‘weave’)
April 19, 2013
Yesterday, when I sat in the old, worn pew in the back of the sanctuary and we chatted, I have to admit I began a bit guarded. When I’d called the church office to ask about newcomer classes, she suggested that rather than waiting for them to arrange another session, I come in and meet with her, the parish priest. I know I’d readily agreed to it, but I was still a little nervous.
The rectory office was in the midst of a re-organization effort and the common area was busily being rearranged for an upcoming activity, so the sanctuary was the only free space when I arrived at our agreed time. It was mostly quiet, save for the kids from the free preschool they run listening to a lesson up on the stage. It’s not an enormous church, but the last pew is far enough back that we couldn’t hear them.
She asked about my church background and what brought me to St. Patrick’s. In a few quick minutes I explained growing up in church and then trying to find the right place after the boys were born and then becoming a church drop-out to study my faith and try to figure out where I belonged. I tried very hard not to ramble. I think I did okay.
We talked about what I’ve been reading — Richard Beck, Rachael Held Evans, Thomas Keating, Barbara Brown Taylor, Miroslav Volf. She is a good listener. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows and it felt like a holy moment, even though I’m not sure I believe there is such a thing.
Looking me in the eyes, she said, “You are so young and that is quite a journey. You are brave to keep trying. A lot of people give up.” I detected no hint of condescension or insincerity or flattery in her voice. I kept my composure and asked about her journey, but my heart was breaking open in the most excruciating and beautiful of ways.
When she considered her words and said that she knew there were some things she may be wrong about, but that she kept praying and seeking understanding and grace, I felt hopeful.
When she said that I would find people in the congregation who held opposing political and social views, she stretched her arms out wide to demonstrate the full reach of those differences. But when she assured me that the congregation strongly believes we are one in Christ and are called to share the table even with those differences, I felt like I was hearing the church I’ve been listening for.
When she said that they aren’t always perfect at it, that they are a place comprised of people which means they will never be perfect, I laughed and told her that if she’d tried to convince me her church was perfect I would have known it was not the place for me. I told her that her congregation was the most welcoming I’d ever experienced and that each Sunday at least two people I hadn’t met yet made a point of chatting with me, and she said she was very glad to hear I’d been made welcome.
She didn’t try to pressure me to continue attending or for any kind of commitment, she simply said that based on our conversation, she thinks the Episcopal church seems like a good fit for me. She encouraged me to call her if I have any questions and agreed to come up with some books for me to read to learn more about their traditions and beliefs. And then she gave me a big hug and said she enjoyed talking with me.
I waited till I got to my car to let the tears fall.
At the beginning of this year I didn’t know if I would ever feel at home in a church again. Four months later — after only six Sunday mornings there — and I can’t imagine finding anywhere else that feels more like home.
They are having a dinner/fund-raiser Saturday night to benefit the local interfaith homeless ministry. She’d seen that I signed up to attend and as we discussed it, she mentioned that she is going to speak for a few minutes beforehand. The topic? Weaving the Fabric of Life.
Maybe there is the slightest possibility I do believe in holy moments after all.
The Forest and the Trees 